Give me your hand, oh little one!
 Like children be we two;
Yet I am old, my day is done
 That barely breaks for you.
A baby-basket hard you hold,
 With in it cherries four:
You cherish them as men do gold,
 And count them o'er.

And then you stumble in your walk;
 The cherries scattered lie.
You pick them up with foolish talk
 And foolish glad am I,
When you wipe one quite clean of dust
 And give it unto me;
So in the baby-basket just
 Are three.

All this is simple, I confess,
 A moment piled with peace;
Yet loving men have died for less,
 And will till time shall cease. . . .
A silken hand in crinkled one--
 O Little Innocence!
O blessed moment in the son
 E'er I go hence!